


A Winter's Tale

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Triquetra Four [4]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon Lesbian Character, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Lesbian Character of Color, Winter Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27698825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: Former barrister Abigael comes to town and sets up a pleather pop-up, inadvertently stealing customers from Mel’s nearby coffee shop. Bickering, competition, and chemistry ensue.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera
Series: The Triquetra Four [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952074
Comments: 26
Kudos: 18





	1. Pleather and Parked

Pleather & Parked

_Mid-Morning, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

A tap, followed by a louder knock, then several more, roused Abigael’s attention from the till. A recent international transplant, she’d quit practicing as a barrister in order to begin fresher pursuits. _Particularly those of the pleather, pop-up sort._

 _What is it?_ The words flickered across her visage as she strode across the timber floored interior of her cozy-to-her shop space, in the direction of the knocking, and the _knocker._

The melanin-hued woman gestured wildly, pointing at Abigael, then at her motorbike, making a giant “X” motion with both rather well-toned arms. _“What?”_ Abigael found herself asking, to be certain, beckoning the woman to meet her in the doorway, opening the front a couple of inches—

“I _said_ ,” continued the woman crossly as if no time had passed, “you’re parked _illegally_ —”

“Nice to meet you too?” Abigael extended her hand, as if on instinct, from her Sussex days. _Once a Brit, always a Brit_ , she mused to herself as the woman stared at her as if she had three heads, then heaved a sigh, meeting her halfway.

“Mel,” the woman said, a monosyllable. “My name’s Mel—”

“ _Abigael._ A pleasure,” she replied—

“And you’re _still_ parked illegally—” Mel finished as Abigael fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Right—will remedy that in a jiffy.” And so she did, clamoring back to her storefront several minutes later. “Better?”

“ _Much_. So, uh,” Mel craned her neck over Abigael’s shoulder, staring into the pop-up shop’s interior, noticing the myriad black leather-like products. “What brings you here?”

“My pop-up,” she laughed in a creamy accented lilt. “I sell greeting cards and other gifts and stationery. All pleather, of course—”

Mel made a face. “ _Pleather_? What’s _pleather_?”

“Only the finest vegan faux leather material available for particular consumer tastes,” answered Abigael, thoroughly nonplussed, as she’d received many a question of the same in the past several months or so. First from her fellow barristers, wondering why she’d sacrifice a lucrative career as a defense attorney for something so… _wildly_ different, and from well-meaning distant family, pondering the loss of disposable income.

 _It’s not all about the money,_ she wanted to say. _Fulfillment matters too. A sense of purpose. And all that._

_Evening, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“…It’s a useless space, it’s _extra—_ pleather is _not_ a thing—” Mel spoke aloud as she stabbed a morsel of green beans so hard she scratched the underlying porcelain. “ _Whoops—”_

Macy, Maggie, and Harry gave each other knowing glances before meeting her eyes.

“ _What?_ ” Mel went on. “Tell me I’m wrong—”

“She’s a famous barrister—” Harry began, stirring the roast beef stew before paying due attention to the black bean stew he’d made especially for Maggie’s vegan- _ish_ tastes.

“—And she’s an animal rights activist, _and_ vegan—” Maggie added, taking a spoonful of bean stew to taste. “Wow, Harry, delish!”

“ _And_ she annoys you, which means there’s something about her…” Macy trailed off as Mel threw her a thinly-veiled look of disgust. “Y’know, you could…” she paused. “Ask her for coffee, since she’s new in town? Get to know her?”

Mel snorted. “As _if—_ she probably snarfs alfalfa—I’ll keep my medium rare burgers, _thanks_ ,” as she dumped a heap of stew in a corner of her plate, splattering everyone within a two-foot radius.

“Suit yourself,” responded Maggie with a twinkle in her eye. “But I think you should reconsider.” She thought of her sister’s latest failed dalliance, both parties utterly besotted, with a catastrophic end nobody saw coming. _Amnesia. Memories obliterated. A Witness Protection-style outcome._

“It had to happen,” Mel spoke softer now, knowing exactly what was on her youngest sister’s mind. “I’m ok, I’m _more_ than ok—”

“I know— _we_ know—” Macy chimed in.

“We want you to be _happy_ , Melonie,” Harry added.

 _But I_ am _happy,_ Mel thought to herself as she peered about the dining table. _I’m single. And I can’t hurt anyone if I’m unattached and alone._

_Next Morning, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

As if on cue, the tapping began at precisely 9 am on the dot. _Mel._ She hid the upward curve of her lips as she stepped toward the open door, pleather high-laced boots and all.

“What is it?”

Mel pointed to the fifteen differently-sized signposts, each stacked atop the other, below which was Abigael’s motorbike. “You’re parked illegally. _Again_.”

_No parking except before 5 am on Wednesdays. Two hour parking between 10 am-Noon. Biweekly snow emergency parking. One-hour customer parking._

Abigael sighed and returned to the till. _Cash register,_ in American parlance, but this time, Mel followed her. “ _Well?”_ Mel asked.

“Well, _what?_ ” Abigael continued examining the paper stubs from the day before, checking for discrepancies.

“Aren’t you going to re-park it?”

“Why?”

“So, _uh,_ you don’t get towed?”

Abigael laughed aloud. “I’d _love_ to see them try. Besides, nothing’s illegal about parking here on a Tuesday morning before 10 am without snow when one is decidedly _not_ a customer—”

“But what if it suddenly starts snowing? Like, in the next several minutes?” Mel crept closer despite her better judgment, unable to figure out why she was so hung up on this issue. Probably because she had a certain interest in decorum and maintaining the peace. _Of course, that must be it._

“Then I’ll move my motorbike,” Abigael calmly replied, her visage now inches away from Mel’s own, as the latter felt a certain indeterminate spark within the air, a _frisson_ that was not entirely unrequited, based on the sudden dilation of Abigael’s pupils, coupled with a surprisingly smoldering expression. “ _Satisfied_?”

Mel tore herself away from the accented woman before her. “ _Don’t even—”_

“Suit yourself!” Abigael called out to Mel’s departing figure, storming out, slouched against the frigid November wind, hastening back to her own coffee shop down the way.


	2. York Ghost Merchants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigael's pleather and holiday drink pop-up attracts attention, Carmina Burana door chime and all, taking away Mel's clientele, much to the latter's annoyance.
> 
> Carmina Burana music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJC-_j3SnXk

York Ghost Merchants

_Next Morning, 9 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“ _Badass_ ,” whispered a voice, impressed, as Abigael glanced up from the till, finding herself face-to-face with a wavy-haired, bouncy, doe-eyed… _teenager? College kid?_

“Thanks,” she answered in her British lilt, eyeing the lady in front of her.

“Sorry about yesterday,” the lady began apologetically. “She’s kinda… _opinionated_.”

 _Definitely a college kid._ “Your sister?”

The lady nodded, extending a hand. “Mel,” she hastily clarified. “Oh, and I’m Maggie—”

 _How could she forget. Mel. Those sinewy arms and raven hair. Her fiery personality, though she’d only gotten a minutes-long glimpse._ “A _pleasure_ —and I’m—”

“Abby with an E!” Her energy was _positively_ frenetic.

“I prefer _Abigael_ —” she replied, with a slight raise of an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah, right, ok,” Maggie blurted, somewhat chastened, before changing the subject entirely. “So, uh, does the pleather shop have a name?”

“ _A girl has no name_ —” muttered Abigael to herself, then gave a start, realizing Maggie had heard her. “Right, _erm…_ you’re the first to notice that. I wanted it to be “Pleasure of Pleather” but the womenfolk would’ve had a fit, according to the blasted zoning department. _Puritans_ ,” she all but snorted as Maggie nodded with sympathetic eyes. “So I kept the original store front. _York Ghost Merchants_.”

“It’s great,” Maggie surmised, “but, y’know, it’s ok to take risks too—” as she ran her fingers across the pleather diaries and notebooks, determining whether Mel would one day be open to such an unusual holiday gift. “Honestly, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before—” glancing behind her to where, Abigael guessed, the rest of her “vegan-ish” friends were, examining various pleather coffee thermoses.

“Good to know,” Abigael smiled. This time last year, she’d overseen cases on commercial transactions concerning a mistreated ocelot and Komodo dragon, respectively. If anyone told her she’d relocate from the big city to a local village town in the dead of winter, she would’ve told them to take a hike.

“What’s that cupboard there?” Maggie asked suddenly, pointing to a large “Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe”-style cupboard entirely made of onyx or ebony.

“Oh,” answered Abigael airily. “That’s where my demons hide—” as Maggie threw her a curious look. “ _Kidding!_ ”

“Heh,” Maggie uttered, unsure of whether to believe her or not, as the door chimed to the apocalyptic-yet-windchimed tune of “Carmina Burana,” indicating the arrival of new customers. The ominous underworld-like melody sounded to Maggie like the deafening screams of human torment. _Oddly enough. What a strange and intriguing person this Abigael was._

_9:20 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“By the way,” added Maggie with a wink, “Mel’s single. In case you were wondering…”

“ _Right_ ,” breathed Abigael, watching as Maggie joined the rest of her friends, currently exclaiming over a Goth Veggie-Tales t-shirt studded with faux rhinestones and metal plating bits. “Oh, and Maggie?” The younger lady turned around. “Where’s the nearest Impossible Burger?”

“Two streets over.”

“Thanks—” as she found herself counting the change once more, while keeping a watchful eye on her wares. _My babies. All made from scratch._

_9:30 am, Café de la Sirena de Marisol (aka Café SM aka Coffee Shop), Spruce Hill Village_

Mel frowned, emerald apron, dark sleek uniform and all. _Where had the morning latte crowd gone?_ In any other ordinary weekday morning, she’d be filling five back-to-back orders, but today, the only thing close to a customer she’d had was a stray napkin that fell through the open front door. _Urban village tumbleweed. If ever there was such a thing._

_9:45 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

She checked her watch against the wall clock. _Something wasn’t right—something must’ve happened—something big._

_But what?_

Glancing over the empty rows of ambient carved-wood metallic-lined seating and seeing none of her usual customers, she ripped off her apron and stuck her head out the front entryway to investigate.

She groaned, having spotted a long line snaked across the pedestrian walkway to a certain pleather store, owned by none other than a certain Abigael Jameson-Caine. Mel had a _very_ bad feeling about this.

_10 am, Outside of Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Another bout of tapping at the window, and she didn’t even have to guess, as she stepped out of her cozy timber-wood store. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” she positively purred in her Sussex lilt.

“We _need._ To _talk—_ ” Mel spoke, teeth gritted. “ _NOW._ ”

“Oh, but _love,_ I’m all ears—” without realizing, Abigael reached out to touch Mel’s arm as Mel shook her off.

“Don’t patronize me!”

Abigael paused, genuinely confused. “Whatever do you _mean_?”

“I _mean,_ ” Mel continued, “you and your—” she gestured at the above signage “ _pleather_ -thingy—are taking away _my_ customers—”

“ _Your_ customers?” Abigael barely hid her smirk. “Last I checked, this was a free country, land of the brave—”

Mel ignored this statement entirely. “I have my _regulars_ —my latte orders—my cappuccinos—my coquito deluxes—”

“What’s a coquito?—” interjected Abigael, but Mel cut her off.

“Point being, I don’t _care_ how you do it, but _I_ need these people for _me_ to stay in business.” Mel glanced over to a horde of college kids raving about a “dirty Santa shake.” “And don’t you need a liquor license to serve alcohol?”

“Oh, like this bit?” Abigael reached in her pocket and pulled out a fully laminated liquor license, signed and notarized. “Pleather _and_ holiday party drinks. It’s strictly business.”

Mel screamed in frustration. _For the love of—“_ Maggie!” She spotted her youngest sister, holding what appeared to be a “dirty Santa shake,” licorice sour hat and all.

“Omigawd, Mel! Hey!” Maggie gave a chipper wave, returned only by Abigael’s curt nod.

Mel stared at Maggie’s drink. “Please don’t tell me you bought one of those… _drinks_ …from _her!”_

“They’re really delicious, Madagascar vanilla bean with Bailey’s Irish Cream, warms you up from head to…toe?” Maggie’s voice faded as Mel continued to scowl, with a frown that could freeze time in its tracks.

_10:10 am, Outside of Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“Sorry about that,” Maggie spoke to Abigael as they watched Mel storm back to her coffee shop, mere doors away. “She can be stubborn,” the youngest Vera remarked, before joining her group of friends, departing for their study group once more.

“ _So can I,_ ” whispered Abigael, out of earshot.

_Evening, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“Mel and I met the new girl earlier today, she makes a mean dirty Santa shake—”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Harry’s expression puckered. “A _dirty_ Santa? _”_

“Um, vegan vanilla spiked milkshake, Irish Cream, licorice sour candy, holiday drink—” Maggie began.

“Sounds delicious!” Macy’s eyes sparkled mischievously toward Harry. “I should make that at home sometime…”

“That Irish Cream _does_ certainly sound enticing…” Harry replied, as Mel groaned, knowing full well the lovestruck couple would likely end up occupying the kitchen late into the evening doing God knew what on _every_ single surface. _Not enough Windex in the world…_

“Why don’t you take her to lunch, grab an Impossible Burger?” Macy offered. “You two could exchange ideas…talk about feminist entrepreneurial empowerment…stuff?”

“NO.”

Macy peered over at Harry and Maggie as she took a sip of water. _I tried._

_Late Evening, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“ _Long day. X.x. Coffees sold: x number. Hearts won: priceless_ ,” Mel typed and sent over the café’s Twitter handle, which was promptly liked by @CarminaBurana666, whoever the heck _that_ was, as she soon fell fast asleep, dreaming of dueling Santa lattes and Gingerbread strudel, with marshmallows roasting, crisp by the fire.


	3. Cavolini Font and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigael and Mel get into a heated argument over the former's pleather sidewalk signage. On the same day, they both happen to sign up for Tinder, eventually saying hello via the anonymous interwebs.

Cavolini Font and Fury

_One Week Later, 9 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Maybe her sisters and Harry had a point. Perhaps it was wise to let bygones be bygones, to move on. She couldn’t very well spend the rest of her waking life dwelling on an ill-fated romance, right? There would come a point in which she wanted to be married, happily so, with a daughter of her own. _Someday._

_Not today._

_But someday._

She clicked through the downloaded Tinder app. _A future girlfriend—future wife material—doesn’t just drop out of the sky._ It was time she, Melonie Vera, took charge of her life and found a marriage-worthy prospect. _Or a potentially dateable one, at least._ Having splurged for the new enhanced anonymity feature, she was pleasantly surprised to find she could create her own username, linking it to her personal Twitter account in the process.

 _@CoquitoQueen3._ After all, she brewed coquito deluxes, and was one of three amazingly talented sisters, two of which considered her a leaderly queen bee. _Or a drama queen at worst._

Mel carefully completed the form, which contained a few additional entries.

 _Seeking:_ woman of the eclectic sort ( _looking for “the” one—not a string of one-night stands…)_

 _Likes:_ feminist small-business entrepreneurs. _Dislikes:_ smokers, misogynists, stoners, mega corporations

 _Idea of a great date:_ perusing unique flavors in a coffee shop; exploring small village town shops; contributing to women-owned local small businesses; walking in the wintry outdoors (town cute, not iceberg/Antarctic); hot cocoa tastings

 _Animals (yes/no):_ must be kind to animals

 _Smoking (yes/no):_ must be non-smoker

_Next Morning, 9 am, Café de la Sirena de Marisol (aka Café SM aka Coffee Shop), Spruce Hill Village_

Mel groaned audibly. _Ugh, not again,_ she groused, spotting a long line winding its way well past her café’s storefront. _What now?_

Peering outside, she noticed a large black folded chalkboard-style signage smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. _Pleasure of Pleather,_ it read in what she recognized to be Cavolini font—a hybrid of Calibri and weirdly enough, juvenile Comic Sans typeface. _Talk about tacky…_

_9:20 am, Café SM to Outside of Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Realizing she’d made her usual holiday blend samples of her newest peppermint spice latte (with no one to serve it to, apparently), Mel decided to take her metal tray full of the stuff, roughly fifty mini paper cups total, to the head of the line. Perhaps she’d win back some of her customers in the process— _who knew? It was worth a try at this point._ She was willing to do anything, short of groveling.

_9:30 am, Outside of Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Having handed out five or so samples in as many minutes, she heard a familiar creamy voice behind her. “Cheerio, _darling_.” Abigael’s drawling accent, plain as day. “And what on _earth_ are you doing to _my_ clientele?”

Now it was Mel’s turn to laugh. “ _Your_ clientele? I thought this was a free country. Oh, _and_ your sign’s blocking pedestrian thoroughfare—” her index finger pointing accusatorily at the prominent chalkboard stand.

“I don’t recall there being a _law_ against sensible signage—” began Abigael, eyes narrowed. “Or were you a traffic warden in a former life? _Do_ enlighten me…”

“Cavolini font’s _not_ sensible—” Mel’s voice rose.

“Who, pray tell, are _you_ to determine what’s _sensible?_ ” The British woman’s eyes flickered an odd orange as she drew nearer to the melanin-visaged Melonie.

“—Comic Sans collegiate is _bad_ business—”

“—Who names a café after a _radio_ station—”

“—SM stands for Sirena and Marisol, _dumbass_ —"

“—The _bloody hell_ is a Sirena—"

Sensing incredible amounts of friction in what appeared to be a sapphic lover’s spat, the line of waiting customers thinned out considerably in the ensuing seconds as Abigael and Mel continued their increasingly heated conversation.

_9:35 am, Outside of Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Suddenly, a peppermint latte sample toppled from Mel’s tray, spilling its crisp, brewed contents on the sidewalk between them, halting their quarrel in its tracks. Realizing she was beginning to lose her temper, Mel took a deep breath, attempting to cool her jets and start over. “Café SM is named for _sirena,_ mermaid in Spanish, and _Marisol,_ my late mother.”

Abigael frowned. “Then why not just name it in full?”

“It’s a mouthful. Café de la Sirena de Marisol. Mermaid Café of Marisol. And half the time, nobody takes the time to pronounce it right. _Believe me,_ I’ve tried.” She abruptly changed the subject. “And why are you using Cavolini font when you could go with _Gill Sans Ultra Bold_?”

The Sussex woman pursed her lips quizzically, in the form and shape of a surprisingly alluring slender crescent moon. “I didn’t realize there were other options available…”

“ _Girl_ , you need to broaden your horizons—” Mel blurted out in response, surprised at herself.

“ _Maybe I will_ —” Abigael leaned that much more forward, as Mel closed her eyes as if on instinct, finding herself _hungry_ and _breathless—_

As Abigael seized the tray of peppermint spice latte samples, cackling all the way to the front door of her pleather shop. Jilted, Mel opened her eyes, fuming, grumbling curses under her breath all the while as she stomped back to her café.

_Damn her and her infuriatingly sultry pleather shop._

_11:30 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Realizing the crowd had dispersed, both from her boozy holiday drink section and her pleather stationery division, Abigael decided it was time she upgraded to the latest Tinder edition, the anonymous version to be exact.

Being able to connect her Twitter handle, @CarminaBurana666, to her Tinder account, was a boon—and quite wonderful in this day and age, where she could further screen prospective lovers to her heart’s content. She carefully completed the form, which contained a few additional entries.

 _Seeking:_ like-minded eclectic woman ( _“the” one…for she was tired of those multiple fruitless jaunts, was she not?)_

 _Likes:_ small-business female entrepreneurs, passion (hot-tempered on occasion), determination, generosity. _Dislikes:_ smokers, misogynist regimes, self-centered power-hungry male autocratic dictators

 _Idea of a great date:_ sharing unique flavors in a dessert shop; exploring small town boutiques; boosting women-owned small businesses; animal-spotting in the wintry park ( _people-spotting, except with cute, furry domestic pets)_

 _Animals (yes/no):_ MUST be kind to animals

 _Smoking (yes/no):_ MUST be non-smoker

Clicking “submit,” she thought nothing further of her application, until several minutes later, when she heard a _ping_ from her phone. _A 99.999% match,_ it claimed. She tilted her head, skeptical of such an assertion, until she spotted the Twitter handle of said contact.

_@CoquitoQueen3._

_No way. Was that…?_

_The only person in a twenty-mile radius who knew what a coquito was?_

She blinked, checking again for the sake of her sanity. _Could it really be?_ Given the honest algorithmic input and attention to resultant calculations forthwith, she knew it _had_ to be true. Her perfect mathematical match, more likely than not, was a certain tempestuous female by the name of Melonie Vera.

_Oh my…_

_Evening, 8 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“Greedy! Insatiable! _Totally_ entitled! Little miss perfect pleather! _Ugh,_ and she’s _so_ goddamned stubborn!” Mel knew she was ranting but couldn’t care less at this point as she stabbed into her Swedish almond cake so hard, a nut sliver whacked Harry across his eyebrow, as Macy glared daggers at her middle sister. _Whoops._ “Sorry Harry…” she muttered, inwardly cringing as Macy dabbed a moist cloth napkin at his forehead. Mel wished Maggie were here instead of working late hours, if only to rein her big mouth in, from time to time.

“No harm done,” Harry replied casually, as if he hadn’t been attacked by accidental flying food projectile, as he and Macy exchanged meaningful glances.

“ _What?”_ Mel couldn’t help inquiring.

“Sounds exactly like a certain someone _we_ know—” remarked Macy, with a barely-hidden smile as she sipped her Aztec spiced hot chocolate, same as in everyone else’s mug, complete with freshly-ground cinnamon and cloves, its intoxicating aroma permeating the air. “Technically, you never said she _couldn’t_ take it all—I mean, she’s a British lawyer, they look for loopholes _everywhere—_ ”

“Honestly, it’s probably a gross misunderstanding,” added Harry, self-appointed expert on all things _England._ “Things work differently ‘across the pond’—I can’t remember all the gaffes I made upon stepping foot on North American soil—the blunders—”

“—Like those hideous Christmas jumpers—” inserted Macy, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as Mel sputtered into her drink. The three had a good laugh for a few ensuing moments after that.

_Evening, 8:30 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“Just, play well and be civil, ok?” Macy beseeched her younger sister as the three collectively washed and dried the dishes. “Treat her like a respected colleague,” she continued, avoiding Harry’s eyes, as their own wall-tumble months before had started that way. _Respected colleague, my foot. And those sleek navy cummerbunds—_

“Ok, I’ll do it for you guys,” sighed Mel finally, drying a tea saucer and placing it in a nearby cupboard, now turning to face the pair. “It won’t be easy—”

“We never said it was,” Harry chuckled, reaching over to plant a kiss atop Macy’s forehead as Mel suppressed an eye-roll.

_Evening, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Checking her phone, she found a Tinder notification. _A 99.99…% match,_ it read. Intrigued, she examined the anonymous woman’s profile. _@CarminaBurana666, who are you?_ she wondered, feeling as though she’d seen the name before, though she couldn’t remember for the life of her where. Truth be told, her café Twitter handle had over a hundred followers, so it was possible she could’ve skated past the name ages ago in a sleep-deprived haze without realizing it.

 _This is weird—_ her inner voice spoke.

 _But—_ came another thought— _what if Carmina’s…”the one?”_

 _Here goes nothing,_ Mel thought to herself, as she brainstormed a sleek, seductive subject line to tantalize and intrigue. Googling “behind the name” and “Carmina,” she discovered that the name, to most of the human population, connoted that which was “formal, upper class, refined, and strange.” To make matters more interesting, “Carmina” itself meant “garden” or “orchard.” “Burana” was the Latin term for “unknown.”

_Intriguing…_

She began to type, delete her words, then retype, employing a bit of Swedish, inspired by Harry’s earlier almond cake of the very same region.

 _Hello, Om (“orchard mysterium”)—_ Mel held her breath, then clicked _send._ A play on Swedish and Latin words, with a double meaning of yogic nirvana.

 _Hola, Lilla (“lilla tropica”)—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _Lilla tropica, or petite tropicale, or “little coconut”—Spanish coquito to English to derived Swedish._

 _Impressive._ Mel beamed. _So far, so good_.

_Evening, 10:20 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Suppressing a yawn, Mel texted again. _Gute Nacht,_ followed by a yawning emoticon and a bed emoticon.

 _Sch_ _öne Tr_ _äume,_ answered Om. _Sweet Dreams._

And Melonie Vera experienced precisely that, imagining beauteous, luminous lexicography, her eyes fast closing as stars danced and glittered in the distant, blossoming night sky.


	4. Gingerlady Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel's annual order for vegan organic locally-sourced gingerbread is cancelled, as Abigael's overnight shipment of the same causes a mass shortage. Both quarrel in the street, much to the chagrin of circuit court judge Celeste. Abigael has a change of heart and learns to share.

Gingerlady Luck 

_Several Days Later, 8 am, En Route and Within Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

_Treat her like a colleague._ Her older sister’s words echoed in her head as she trudged to her café, braving the December winds to bring a bevy of mixed beverages to her fiercely loyal customers, a handful of which had already lined up at the pine-wreathed door.

“Morning, Celeste,” she called out to an older woman, her short curly hair lined with silvery grey strands.

“ _Is_ it?” came the sarcastic reply. “Had _no_ idea,” as Mel, rolling her eyes, unlocked the door, allowing her clientele to stream through while she unwrapped her own scarf and jacket, draping them over a nearby coat hook. _Dark coffee, no sugar, a pinch of Splenda, and a shot of cinnamon to keep the circuit court judge on her septuagenarian toes._

_8:10 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

“Your usual,” Mel handed the piping hot beverage to Celeste who gave a curt nod of approval.

“Change is for the young—no _pleather_ nonsense—no boozy _whatsits—_ I like my drinks how I like my soul—dark, snappish—"

 _And extremely bitter,_ Mel mused to herself, biting back a smile as she prepared her cappuccino machine for an influx of Italian tourists, eager to see the trappings of a real American Christmas village. _Amaretto and tiramisu syrups at the ready._

_8:58 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Once the early morning crowd had departed, she checked her phone’s calendar and realized it was time to order her annual holiday gingerbread from her local wholesaler. After dialing, she burst into full conversational ease—"oh _hi,_ Charity!—not much, quiet day, yours? Right, yeah, so, just calling about my yearly order, organic vegan gingerbread, the usual—”

Mel’s mouth dropped in horror. “Wait— _what?_ A _shortage?_ B-but— _how?_ ” She began pacing, running her fingers through her hair. “Ok, I know it’s not company policy to divulge your other clients—but—" she grumbled under her breath, as she continued listening to the opposite line, knowing she was being fed empty promises of “ _it’s only temporary,”_ and a conciliatory “ _I’ll put you on backorder—”_ quickly hanging up after a quick, business-like goodbye.

 _My order’s been cancelled,_ Mel realized in shock.

 _Great. Now what?_ Massaging her temple, she took a few deep breaths, a silent concession to her youngest sister Maggie, who often worried about the tension and stress her middle sister often carried upon her shoulders.

_How would she create her signature Gingerlady latte…without Charity’s gingerbread? Or her usual Gingerbread cupcakes?_

Sourcing someone else this time of the holiday season was impossible due to having to compete with waiting lists and decades-long baker-to-shopowner friendships. To make things even more complicated, her commitment to local businesses—in this case, the _gingerbread_ sort, meant it was Charity’s gingerbread, or nothing.

Mel quickly did the math. Perhaps, if she sacrificed her cupcakes, and went with Gingerlady lattes instead, she could use less gingerbread. As for sourcing said gingerbread, she could take a risk and make her own, using Marisol’s old cookbook stowed in Vera Manor’s attic. _It was worth a try, right?_

_9:30 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel turned around, having heard the door open and shut. “Macy, what’s up?”

Her oldest sister, curls surrounding her visage akin to a halo, smiled apologetically. “Can I borrow your fancy printer again? Got a presentation in a few…” Mel nodded, and Macy walked toward the back, in the general direction of the oversized printer. After fifteen or so minutes passed, she returned, stacks of meticulously-stapled papers in hand. “ _You’re a lifesaver_.”

“I try…” Mel tried to feign cheer but failed miserably.

“What’s wrong?” Macy approached the countertop as Mel scrubbed a ceramic coffee cup.

“Gingerbread shortage. My order’s cancelled—”

“That’s _impossible!”_ Macy appeared shocked. “B-but—”

“I _know_ —Charity’s out, which hasn’t happened… _ever._ In the history of this _store_.”

“No—what I’m saying is—” her oldest sister spoke haltingly. “That’s _not_ possible—Abigael got a huge “Nightmare Before Christmas” vegan organic locally-sourced gingerbread village in her storefront—shipped overnight—and Charity’s the only purveyor for _miles—_ the Instagrammers are going _wild—_ ” she stopped, having had a sudden moment of realization. “ _Oh._ ”

_Oh dear, indeed._

“I’m sure it’s just a…misunderstanding?” Macy’s voice trailed off uncertainly, concerned at the fast-roiling waves of anger crossing her middle sister’s visage.

“ _Misunderstanding, my ass,_ ” muttered Mel, positively seething. “This. Means. _War._ ”

_9:55 am, Outside of Café SM and Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Having finished her behind-the-counter tasks, she ripped off her apron, opening the café door to yet another _pleather_ line around the block, coincidentally at the same time Abigael, donned in black and spiked pleather heels, was situated outdoors, beaming and fully in her element.

Before Macy could stop her, Mel began quarreling. “ _Ever heard of the principle of scarcity?”_

“ _Nope!”_ came Abigael’s swift retort, roughly thirty meters away, “though I’m _quite_ a fan of a good old-fashioned monopoly!”

“Let’s see how you do on commitment _and_ consistency!” Mel snapped, side-tracking the monopoly remark. “Scarcity hinges on heuristics—"

“ _Theoretical_ heuristics which are both impractical AND unnecessary!” shrieked Abigael, never one to back away from a fight. _Not this time, at least._ “And for _your_ information, it’s a monopoly—a damned _successful_ one _—”_ further stoking the flames of mutual fury.

“And even if it’s a monopoly, inelastic demand’ll create some _real_ pissed off customers!” Mel raised her voice again, just as Celeste passed through.

The older woman glanced at the bickering ladies who appeared to be causing unnecessary commotion. _Oh, for the love of—_

“Just KISS already!” Celeste exclaimed, echoing the frustration of the queuing customers, all of whom just wanted an end to this fracas.

“ _SHUT UP!”_ Abigael and Mel angrily shouted at the voice, then collectively blanched, realizing it was the circuit court judge herself.

“Oh, sorry, Celeste—I swear—it just slipped out—” Mel began apologetically, practically falling all over herself to curry favor as the elder held her hand as if in pause.

“ _ENOUGH,_ ladies! Christmas is a time of joy. _Or I’ve heard it is, anyways_. If you two don’t behave, I’ll throw you in the drunk tank for disturbing the peace, and you’ll work your matters out there. _Catch my drift?”_ Her eagle eyes met the two women, standing at a distance from the other at their individual storefronts, as they silently nodded.

“Good _,”_ Celeste replied, heading toward the courthouse in the distance. “ _As you were_.”

_Evening, 8 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Later that night, Mel lodged an anonymous online complaint with the mayor’s office, filling out the automated sections.

 _Party/Parties involved:_ Ms. Abigael Jameson-Caine

 _Nature of Complaint:_ 1\. Exploitation of the business principle of scarcity and 2. Excessive monopolization of organic vegan locally-sourced gingerbread

 _Location of Complaint:_ Pleather Pop-Up Shop (aliases include: “Pleasure of Pleather,” “York Ghost Merchants”) at Spruce Hill Village

 _Relevant Time of Complaint:_ December morning, approximately 9:30-10 am

 _Desired Outcome:_ Equitable dismantling of monopolized/scarce distribution of organic vegan gingerbread; any/all consequences to the fullest extent possible (i.e. injunction, monetary damages, punitive damages, emotional damages re: negligent infliction of emotional distress (NIED) and intentional infliction of emotional distress (IIED) re: absence of earlier-mentioned gingerbread product)

And _…submitted._

_Evening, 8:20 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Fixing herself a steaming cup of peppermint tea, she bumped into Harry and Macy on her way out. “How goes it with the… _Abigael…_ situation?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“ _Quite well_ ,” Mel grinned smugly at the now-worried pair, as she stirred her beverage before leaving it to cool for a minute.

“Mel,” Macy remained where she stood, her eyes fixed on her younger sister. “ _Please_ don’t do anything stup—anything _I_ wouldn’t do—” she hastily corrected herself.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Mel airily, cheerfully ascending the stairs minutes later, balancing her tea along an accompanying saucer.

Harry peered over Macy’s shoulder at the fast-departing figure, brushing her delicate curls from her sloping shoulder. “Mel seems excessively…” he searched for the word, “… _happy._ Should we be worried, love?”

Macy nodded, brow furrowed. “ _Extremely_ worried.”

_Evening, 9:30 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello, Om (“orchard mysterium”)—_ Mel held her breath, then clicked _send._

 _Hola, Lilla (“lilla tropica”)—_ came the swift reply, a minute later.

 _Rough day today,_ Mel wrote.

_Pourquoi? Why?_

_I lost my gingerbread order._

Abigael picked at a hangnail, her slender fingers poised above the individual letters. _Can’t you find another distributor?_ But she erased that, fearing it would come off too…lacking in empathy.

 _What happened?_ the brunette typed instead.

_A competitor bought out all my source company’s gingerbread. Can’t find anyone else—_

Abigael frowned. _Anyone?_ Odd.

 _Surely, gingerbread is a common holiday recipe?_ She clicked _send._

Seconds passed as Mel reviewed Om’s message. _Nobody uses the word “surely” this day and age. It sounded almost…_ she paused… _British._ And the only woman she knew from that region in a twenty-mile radius was Abigael. _No. Not_ possible. Abigael would never sound as sweet as @CarminaBurana666, alias “Om.”

 _No,_ Mel typed. _Not mine. I get mine specifically from Charity’s bakery._

 _Why Charity’s? Why does her gingerbread mean so much to you?_ Abigael wrote. _Please, help me understand…_

 _It’s my youngest sister, Maggie,_ Mel clicked and tapped on the messaging system. _She’s vegan-ish and we barely have anything in common and this is the one thing we can bond over. Ever since our mom’s death, those moments have been rare. And it keeps our mom’s memory alive. In a way. The vegan organic gingerbread really brings us together as a family. All those happy memories. Y’know. I don’t know how to deal, without it._

Abigael stared at the screen. _Oh._ She’d gotten everything wrong, it seemed. It wasn’t commercial greed that drove Mel’s oft-confrontational nature. Mel’s prime motivator, as it turned out, was the purest form of love and loyalty for her family.

 _Lilla, I had no idea…_ she sent to the raven-haired lady. _I’m sorry to hear,_ her fingers wove their way about the screen.

She began to tear up, despite her varnished exterior. _I’m sorry…I’m so sorry Lilla…I had no idea._

_A Few Days Later, 8 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Several days came and went since that conversation. Within the first two days, Abigael had been approached by Madame Mayor herself for a photo opportunity and spread in the local newspaper of her alternate career path—“Barrister to Baked Goods” it read in the post, a mere day later. Rather than issue any citations, the jovial leader chose instead to tour the pleather pop-up, purchasing a mini vest for her wrinkly hairless Sphynx cat.

Madame Mayor had complimented the use of vegan gingerbread for her Jack Skellington Halloween-turned-Christmas Town as onlookers cheered, but the victory somehow felt hollow. Abigael realized, as the week went on, as lines continued to lead out her door and around the block, she needed more managerial help, and there had been grumblings, besides, of her products possibly overpriced. _Melonie was right,_ she understood now. _Whether monopoly or principle of scarcity, neither were sustainable in the long-term._

And in that moment, Abigael knew what she had to do.

_9 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Flipping through her mother’s flour-stained cookbook, its pages yellow with age, Mel stirred the gingerbread mixture, bopping her head to the tune emanating from her earbuds.

 _She really is quite adorable,_ Abigael observed with a twinkle in her eye, laying a sizable package at the café’s countertop, having crept in unnoticed.

“ _Ahem—_ ” Abigael’s voice rang out as Mel froze, swiveling to find herself face-to-face with her competitor.

“ _YOU—”_

“I come bearing gifts,” the Sussex women hastily added, gesturing to the package beside her. “Or, rather… _a_ gift—"

“What’s that?” Mel frowned. She wasn’t expecting any boxes that she knew of.

“Vegan organic gingerbread,” Abigael replied. “I ordered too much—rookie mistake—and I thought it only fair—”

The melanin-hued lady squinted at the box, then back at Abigael. _Was this a trick?_

“Surely I can remedy this,” said Abigael finally, her tone softening somewhat. “I shouldn’t have dominated the market like that—it was unbecoming, _uncouth—”_

Mel gave a start at hearing the accented pronunciation. There was something familiarly alluring about Abigael’s British tonality, though Mel for the life of her could _not_ figure out what that _something_ was.

_Evening, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello, Om,_ Mel clicked _send._

 _Hola, Lilla—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _How was today?_

 _Better,_ answered Mel.

 _And what of your competitor?_ Abigael waited with bated breath for several tense seconds.

 _I don’t wish the Christmas Yeti to eat her or her pleather. Not anymore._ Mel typed back, as her recipient grinned to herself. _Who knew this Melonie had such sparkling, dry-humored wit?_

 _Not to mention…progress,_ Abigael mused, before drifting off to sleep, dreaming of _Lebkuchen_ spice cookies, the modern-day equivalent, she supposed, of those effervescent, entirely ephemeral Sugar Plum Fairies of yore.


	5. A Catfish Catastrophe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel believes she has been catfished, at Abigael's pop-up, of all places. Memories dislodge and resurface due to Abigael's hot chocolate recipe.

A Catfish Catastrophe

_Some Evenings Later, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello, Om,_ Mel clicked _send._

 _Hola, Lilla—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _How was today?_

 _Nice. But pretty damn smelly,_ answered Mel, referencing Abigael’s gingerbread generosity, coupled with the Brit’s affinity for danger, having accidentally set off the entire street’s fire alarms due to a chocolate crinkle recipe gone horribly wrong. _Twelve minutes, woman—_ not _fifty-four, for the love of—_

Mel sighed, recalling the scream of fire engines careening to a halt in front of their storefronts. Abigael’s attention had to have been elsewhere, to burn cookies to that severe an extent.

_10 pm, Abigael’s Living Room, Spruce Hill Village_

Meanwhile, Abigael cringed from where she sat in her apartment, located just behind her pop-up. _Whoops._ She knew _exactly_ what had been on her mind while massaging the dark melted baker’s chocolate with the snowy flour, the crystalline granulated sugar with the caustic baking soda, and the moist eggs with the silken confectioner’s sugar.

Or, rather— _who_.

_Sweet, spitfire Melonie Vera, her sun-kissed hue in stark contrast to her alabaster own._

_Mel Vera, her Lilla, her @CoquitoQueen3._

She sniffed the air and grimaced, the _oh-so-alluring_ odor of burnt _chocolat_ permeating the air around her. _Not enough candles in the world…_

_10:15 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

An idea formed in Mel’s head at that very moment, one that had been brewing since the beginning. _How about we meet sometime?_

She waited for several seconds, which turned into a minute, then several, before @CarminaBurana666, alias “Om,” responded.

_Meet me at YGM, back coffeeshop, tomorrow at 11?_

Mel frowned. _YGM? You’ve Got Mail?_

_What’s that—no. I meant “York Ghost Merchants,” love—_

_10:19 pm, Abigael’s Living Room, Spruce Hill Village_

_Bollocks. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks—_ she’d sent the message without redacting the “— _love”_ bit. She’d practically given herself away. _Played her cards, and all that._ Abigael groaned, resisting the urge to kick her laptop to the curb whilst simultaneously setting it ablaze to remove every bit of evidence of pining—

She heard a _ping._

_That works._

_Next Morning, 11 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Right on time, Abigael heard the door chime to Carmina Burana, its twinkling metallic lull belying its darker, subtly covert origins. _Melonie._

Pushing herself through the throng of people at the front, Mel wove her way to the back, suddenly finding herself in an Old World French-style café with… _cocoa?_ She stared at the display of several tiny shot glasses of the substance. _A variety,_ it appeared. _And what was that tune she’d heard earlier?_ Mel flipped through her apps and located a music finder app—

Precisely at the moment Abigael entered the room. Spotting the Brit, Mel put away her phone and continued to wait, her foot tapping the timber flooring. To her right, on a standing platform, was signage: “ _What’s Your Flavor Profile?”_ in festive holiday colors, as she hesitantly took a seat at the sleek marble counter, its barstools made of onyx-hued pleather.

 _Who_ are _you?_ Mel wondered, silently admiring the décor, realizing she’d underestimated Abigael, for all her boozy Santa shakes and burnt-to-a-crisp cookies. _And, where_ are _you?_ This was supposed to be a casual date. She’d saved a seat at her left for her (hopefully) future _amour. Sa copine. Her girlfriend. Maybe._

_11:06 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Minutes later, Mel found her saved seat occupied by none other than Abigael Jameson-Caine. “ _You’ve gotta be kidding me,_ ” she muttered.

“Pardon?” the referenced woman inquired with an arched eyebrow.

“That’s my friend’s seat—”

“You have _friends?_ ”

 _Ouch-that-hurt. Or maybe she was kidding,_ Mel inwardly told herself, spotting the woman’s twinkling eyes. _Ok, definitely kidding._ “The friend who was supposed to show up…”

“—Six minutes ago?”

Mel gave a start. _How could Abigael have known?_ Maybe she was an eavesdropper. Mel made a mental note to investigate whether the woman had a history of undercover espionage. _Like Julia Child. Or whoever else._ “None of your business—”

“Oh but it _is_ my business, seeing as you’re in _my_ shop,” Abigael all but purred, tapping her tapered, well-manicured nails upon the unyielding marble.

“It’s. _Not._ Your. Seat—”

“It is now!” _End of discussion._

_11:11 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel slouched. _Clearly she’d been catfished. And in her competitor’s lair, as if being catfished weren’t humiliating enough._ She made to leave, but Abigael placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Just _where_ do you think _you’re_ headed?”

 _Anywhere but here,_ Mel thought, but swallowed those unspoken words as Abigael continued. “ _Do_ humor me, won’t you? Sit—and have a flavor profile done—with me?”

“A flavor profile? What’s that?” Mel couldn’t help but ask, after regaining her composure somewhat.

“Determining your favorite cocoa flavor based on _you—”_

“ _Impossible—_ I already _have_ a favorite—”

Abigael’s eyes shone in that instant, as if to say, _watch me._

_11:30 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

_Melonie was stubborn, hot-headed, sweet with those she loved…_

Abigael silently tabulated the contents of her imagined flavor profile of the melanin-hued woman seated beside her. _Yes, Aztec bitter hot cocoa would do,_ the Sussex lady declared to herself. _Perhaps a mix of Jack Daniels, Irish Cream…and a hint of coconut. Actually, less Jack Daniels, much more coconut—_

She wasn’t completely sure why, but Mel seemed rather inextricably connected to the tropical plant. The _cocos nucifera._

“ _Here_ , love—” the brunette proffered the mixed drink, having concocted it from the myriad shot glasses in front of them both, as Mel took a hesitant sip, her eyes growing wide.

“ _Oh my God,”_ whispered Mel, practically seeing stars as she took a second sip, then a third—pausing to collect her thoughts, as flashbacks began to resurface beneath her mind’s eye—her late mother’s coquito recipe, her dad’s alcohol-fueled poker games, Maggie’s sorority shenanigans—as she burst out crying and fled the next instant, Abigael staring after her, deeply concerned for the raven haired woman’s well-being.

_11:45 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

_Shite._ She’d meant to do a flavor profile, not a viscerally raw soul-search. _Somehow, she’d done both. How on earth had that happened, anyhow?_

 _I do hope she’s alright?_ Abigael wordlessly posited to herself, realizing Mel in all likelihood ran home to seek the comfort of her family. _Suburbs of Spruce Hill, Vera Manor_ , according to city records she’d dredged up a week ago. Gathering her own pleather jacket from a nearby coat hook, she corralled what few customers remained toward the main exit, flipping the signage to “ _Closed”_ as she locked the door behind her, Carmina Burana chime and all.

_It was time to pay a visit to Vera Manor._


	6. A Catharsis Contemplatif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigael comes calling to Vera Manor. Mel, embarrassed at having caused a scene, briefly contemplates moving to Mongolia. Unsurprising amounts of slow burn chemistry ensue.

A Catharsis Contemplatif

_11:45 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Gathering her own pleather jacket from a nearby coat hook, she corralled what few customers remained toward the main exit, flipping the signage to “ _Closed”_ as she locked the door behind her, Carmina Burana chime and all.

_It was time to pay a visit to Vera Manor._

_12:10 pm, Front Porch, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Abigael glanced all around her, admiring the classy holiday lighting that was equal parts tasteful _and_ elegant. _Oh, the perks of belonging to a homeowner’s association!_ she silently exclaimed, before scraping her shoes on the wrought iron scraper. _How distinctive_. Hardly any houses these days had such a feature, but this was no ordinary dwelling, she knew.

According to various records, the house was roughly a century old (give or take some years) and was thereby deemed a historical landmark for preservation purposes. Basically, in this mortal realm, the house—or “Vera Manor” as it was colloquially known—was legally indestructible. It certainly put the “permanent” in “permanent residence,” that much she knew for certain as she paced a couple of steps, made as if to knock on the large-framed door, paused, then paced again, rehearsing her apologetic speech.

 _Hi Mel,_ she mouthed. _I’m sorry I made you—_ she stopped, starting over. _I’m sorry I upset you—_

Abigael sighed. She hated apologizing—it _never_ came naturally—but understood one was definitely called for. _Especially if she wanted a chance with Mel. Lilla. Her Melonie. In their waking lives._ She grasped the offending drink, contained in a faux rhinestone-studded spiky pleather thermos, unsure of why she chose, in those seconds before closing, to bring it, but had come to realize her subconscious instincts were, at times, wiser than she.

_12:11 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Silently sobbing into her soft linen pillow that smelled of evergreen, mint, and sage, she sniffed and stopped, having heard footsteps— _from where?_ She shook her head. _It’s just my imagination._

What was pressing, at this particular moment, wasn’t so much the cocoa, or the release of memories, so much as it was her soon-to-be-obsolete coffee shop and printing business. Her sips of Abigael’s cocoa served as a stark awakening to the fact she risked going out of business, the British woman’s _chocolat_ was _just_ that _amazing_ , which meant—she, Melonie Vera, needed to reassess her life’s path.

 _Maybe I’ll move to Mongolia._ She wiped a tear, but another soon followed. _I’ll live in a canvas yurt to avoid the humiliation of crying over hot chocolate in a goddamned pleather shop. Wonder what yak milk tastes like—_

_12:12 pm, Front Entryway, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

She finally drew up the courage and knocked. No sooner had she done so, the door flew open. “Abby with an E!”

 _The bouncy one._ Abigael repressed the urge to roll her eyes. “I prefer _Abigael—”_

“Soooo…. _Abigael._ What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Maggie’s excitement was palpable.

“A series of unfortunate events—” Abigael muttered, as the youngest Vera’s face fell somewhat. The Sussex woman didn’t have the heart to add she was to apologize for making Maggie’s middle sister cry over a cup of her finest hot chocolate. _Of all the scenarios drummed up in her head, this was not one of them,_ as she stared past Maggie through the threshold of Vera Manor.

“Ok…um…come in!” and so the brunette did, if somewhat hesitantly.

Personally, Maggie had been hoping for an ardent declaration of love—Mel and Abby forever. After all, as a social butterfly, she enjoyed bringing people together, and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play Cupid every now and then.

“Where’s Mel?”

 _Still,_ the young woman mused, _Abigael_ _was here, in the flesh—maybe there was hope?_ “Upstairs, third door to the right—the one with the cut-out Roxane Gay tweet—you can’t miss it—”

“ _Right-o,”_ replied Abigael, glancing upward in trepidation at the oaken bannister, which appeared to have grown taller in the past minute and a half, looming over her slight figure. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought the manor enchanted with an expansion charm of some sort. She shook her head in the next instant. _Silly girl, there’s no such thing—_

_12:18 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

A knock was heard at the door. “Come in…” Mel called out. Instead of her youngest sister’s wavy hair, it was the _sylph_ Abigael. She stared in shock, before remembering her visage was streaked from weeping, surreptitiously using a shirt sleeve to mop her eyes as best she could.

“How did you know where I live?” More than anything, Mel knew she herself ought to feel… _skeeved out?_ Oddly, she felt _comforted—_ that Abigael found her. _Sought her out. Chose her—_ wait, where were _those_ thoughts coming from?! Mel was shocked at herself ( _and those invasive thought bubbles of hers_ ).

“I have my sources. Well…” Abigael paused, deciding to be a bit more forthcoming, “…home ownership is a matter of public record. So I googled it…and…such.”

Mel nodded, accepting that tidbit as a plausible answer. _Whew._

The melanin-hued lady continued to sit atop her bed, her eyes never leaving Abigael’s, now burnished with a certain intensity the latter had not noticed before. “ _Abigael_ —” Mel whispered. “Why are you here?”

_12:20 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

“I’m sorry—” Abigael blurted. “I-I apologize for whatever triggered your tears. _Truly_ I am.” She awkwardly shifted her weight as she stared at a corner thread of the cream-colored carpet. “ _Sorry,_ I mean,” though there was no need to clarify about what.

“Late-stage reaction—”

“ _Pardon?”_

“—To chopping onions. I was chopping _onions_ —” Mel ignored the blush forming on her cheeks as she fingered the linen sheets before her, understanding that Abigael _knew_ this to be an abject lie. For the preservation of whatever dignity she had left, which at present, was practically nil.

“Right…” Abigael’s voice trailed off as she took a step into the vaguely cavernous _chambre._

“How did you know?”

“Know…?” It was Abigael’s turn to be puzzled. “About…?”

“My late mother’s secret coquito recipe?”

“Coquito? Is _that_ what it was?” The Brit recalled having researched the substance after Mel’s far earlier remark, but hadn’t used any in the cocoa, to her knowledge.

“The c-coconut—the _rum—”_ Mel stammered despite herself.

Abigael searched her mental rolodex. _Her mind palace_. “Intuition, I guess.”

_12:25 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Mel regarded the woman for the next several moments, absorbing every form and feature. _Abigael couldn’t have possibly known. And this was embarrassing._ Her newfound business competitor offering to capitulate to her own momentary outburst. _Melonie Vera, have you no shame?_ Her conscience remonstrated herself as she sat up straighter, her back flush against the headboard.

 _For both their sakes, she really had to pull herself together_ — _she_ had _to_ —Mel told herself, as Abigael drew nearer, her silent silk-stockinged footsteps traversing an unmarked path. Coupled with her beguiling porcelain visage and soft brunette _cheveux_ , the Sussex female seated herself beside the melanin beauty to whom she sought to pay noontime homage to, even if by initial unpleasant happenstance.

 _The reason was no longer of importance,_ Mel realized with a start.

_All that mattered was—_

_She was here—_

_With her crimson lips that smelled faintly of Christmas itself_. Mel emitted an involuntary sigh of ecstasy as Abigael enveloped her in a soft hug, taking her time to tuck a lock of raven hair behind an ear.

If Abigael were honest with herself, she could easily visualize courting such a deep, dark-haired passionate soul, but grasped that to overstep meant perhaps losing Mel’s trust forever and a day.

_12:45 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

Abigael disentangled her willowy arms from her— _their­—_ wordless, not-entirely-platonic embrace as Mel looked on questioningly. _Where are you going?_ The words stuck to the latter’s throat, unable to make a sound—

“ _I hope_ —” Abigael murmured, “ _to see you around—”_ as Mel nodded mutely; after those words had been spoken thus, the former departed, closing the door behind her as she heard Mel’s whimpers turn to sobs.

_12:46 pm, Outside Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

After closing Mel’s bedroom door, she lingered just outside, if only for a moment. “ _Please,”_ Abigael all but whispered, her crimson lips kissing the slender pinewood doorframe. “ _Let me help you—”_ before brushing a tear of her own away, traversing the stairs, exiting Vera Manor the same way she arrived. Flinging open the front door, she was immediately hit with a blustery winter breeze as she hurried back to York Ghost Merchants, Spruce Hill Village.

_Same Evening, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello, Om,_ Mel clicked _send._ Now, _especially_ now, in this season of glad tidings and giving, she felt it important to maintain a certain semblance of… _normalcy,_ determined to ignore the fact she’d had a good long cathartic cry that lasted the better part of a few hours, necessitating Maggie and Macy to cover her shifts (and ask after her mental well-being).

 _Hola, Lilla—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _How are you?_

 _Contemplative,_ came Mel’s—or _Lilla’s_ —reply. _And cathartic._

Abigael smiled. _That’s good, Lilla. I do worry about you overexerting yourself sometimes…_

 _True. I thought about escaping to Mongolia—living in a yurt—_ Mel clicked send.

The British woman frowned. _A yurt?_ Perhaps Mel’s joking. _She has to be—_

_\--But I decided here is better._

Abigael bit her lip and grinned. _Here is_ much _better._

And— _sent._


	7. Red Velvet Rencontrer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week later, Mel tries to return Abigael's spiky rhinestone-studded pleather thermos, but red velvet cookies prove an amorous distraction. (Note: "rencontrer": to meet by chance)

Red Velvet Rencontrer

_One Week Later, 10 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel stood outside the Goth dark holiday-festooned pop-up storefront, clasping a faux rhinestone-studded spiky pleather thermos, its contents enjoyed and savored in the days following Abigael’s surprise visit. She realized the brunette left the beverage behind— _accidentally or on purpose, Mel did not know—_ and she took a sip. Then another, closing her eyes to the symphonic burst of flavor dancing upon her very tongue, her toes involuntarily curling amidst a heady gasp she barely registered herself making. _Heavens to Hera, that was better than s—_

She paused, spotting a flyer, taped to the inside window. _What could that be?_

Recalling the taste of that cocoa, its contents left behind akin to a modern-day Cinderella’s shoe, Mel understood she had delayed the return of the container to its rightful owner, far longer than was considered societally polite. Even if Abigael didn’t necessarily ascribe to social norms, Mel certainly did. In the evenings that followed, Mel spent hours attempting to replicate the cataclysmic warmth and passionate glow the beverage had imbued within her very spirit. Her flavor technologist hat on, she had scoured the internet for possible recipes, ingredients, substitutions, additions, additives— _anything—_ and found nothing that could have sparked such an emotional, expressive reaction. _Maybe coconut extract?_

 _Can you blame Abigael—for taking away business?_ She knew the answer was no, as she drew closer to the notice in question. The British woman admittedly had an excellent eye for detail, and was altogether unconventional and refreshing, with her crisp, accented lilt.

Mel stood stock-still, a sudden realization dawning upon her. _Omigawd—I think—_

_I like her._

_No. No way._ Mel shook her head, as if by that motion alone her seemingly errant thoughts would fly free of her soul—but comprehended, deep down, those feelings were there to stay.

 _But she’s your nemesis!_ Every fiber of her brain attempted to counter the surge of sentiments coursing through her mind. _She hugged me…and I enjoyed it…and wanted…more._

 _She stole your customers!_ Her rational intellect provided unsolicited input, aiming to sway herself in the direction of logic. _They went of their own choice._

 _She seized all your vegan organic gingerbread!_ Mel felt this to be an honest mistake, really. Abigael hadn’t known. She couldn’t have, being a newcomer to Spruce Hill Village just as the holiday season had barely begun. _All alone, too—_

_10:10 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

And what was that Macy mentioned earlier about proposing a partnership? Herself, Melonie Vera, working together with Abigael Jameson-Caine? Collaborating like colleagues? Mel read through the first line, its Century Schoolbook typeface more satisfactory than Cavolini, but somewhat tongue-in-cheek…and _naughty,_ besides. Mel wondered if the woman within derived sensual pleasure from student-teacher roleplay, hence the choice of font, but decided it wasn’t her place to judge, as she certainly had a rolodex of… _imaginings_ , herself.

“HELP WANTED—MANAGERIAL” the flyer spelled out. “Inquire within—and bring a test recipe.”

_10:20 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Instead of pushing through the likely crowded interior of the pleather pop-up, Mel found herself back in her own café, Abigael’s coffee thermos set upon the counter. Perusing the various cookie recipes she’d stored earlier on her phone, Mel wondered whether she ought to pair the batch with a Gingerlady latte, or a Coquito cocoa, but felt simplicity would be preferred.

Having decided upon a quintessential Christmas classic, the chocolate crinkle cookie, Mel worked swiftly to gather her ingredients. The bittersweet baker’s chocolate served as the primary base, its darkness counterbalanced against the bright powdered sugar, meant to mimic a seasonal December snowfall in all its glory. _Yin and yang. Darkness and light. Good and evil._

Several more minutes passed, and she reviewed her ingredients against the recipe. _Granulated sugar—_ check. _Vegetable oil, eggs, vanilla extract—_ check. _All-purpose flour, baking powder—_ check and check.

 _Now for the décor—_ Mel regarded her cookie decoration ingredients closely. Red and green sprinkles, or blue coloring, or red velvet coloring? The red and green seemed festive though too conventional, too… _everyday_ for Abigael’s taste. Blue didn’t seem Christmas-y exactly. Which left… _red velvet._

Mel tilted her head. _How had she not seen it before?_ Red velvet was perfect for the Brit. A classic dessert, festive and elegant with imitations of snowfall vis-à-vis the confectioner’s sugar, made sense. So too, would a reference to the red velvet cake, an American dessert that debuted in WWII-era 1943 in “The Joy of Cooking,” using organic beetroot for coloring due to the wartime’s scarcity of ingredients. The cookbook’s maker, Irma S. Rombauer, supposedly stated she didn’t much care for the cake, in a fascinatingly ironic twist, which meshed well ( _or so Mel hoped_ ) with Abigael’s quirky personality.

_10:40 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Ingredients and spiky rhinestone-studded coffee thermos in her canvas satchel, Mel planted herself in front of the pleather shop once more, as she heard the eerily familiar chime of its front door. _What_ was _that tune?_ She dug in her pocket for her phone, pressing the _record_ button on her SoundHound music app—and gasped moments later once the result came in—

_Carmina Burana._

_—_ as she experienced an unexpected wave of dizziness, overcome by the enormity of it all. If, of course, it was exactly as she thought—and quite possibly, if she were fully honest with herself _…hoped._

“ _Holy shit,”_ Mel whispered as a slender pair of familiar arms caught her and her satchel, breaking her fall. Turning around, she realized it was none other than Abigael, who’d somehow slipped out of her pop-up shop undetected.

_10:45 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“Y’awright?” The Sussex woman’s slang slipped through, concerned as she was for the raven-haired lady’s well-being, as Mel shakily nodded, recovering herself, shifting her weight upon the cobblestone sidewalk.

“T-That’s…” Mel paused, deciding then and there to investigate further before revealing whatever knowledge she had.

“That’s…?”

Mel swallowed hard. “… _Quite a doorbell_ —” she managed to stammer.

“Yes, I’ve been told that by my clientele,” answered the brunette silkily. Glancing at Mel’s satchel, she continued. “Something tells me you’re not just here to admire my doorbell though… _do_ come in, won’t you?”

_10:50 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel followed in her wake, glancing every so often at the myriad pleather notebooks, studded Veggie Tales T-shirts, and various other vegan-centric items, purses, pleather bags aplenty, until they arrived at the back, seating themselves at the marble countertop’s pleather barstools.

“So _Melonie,_ ” Abigael finally asked. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“I saw your managerial ad—and I’m feeling…” Mel searched for the word. “ _Adventurous.”_

Her Sussex smile widened into a full Cheshire grin. “ _Challenge accepted.”_

_11 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Once Mel laid out the ingredients and Abigael provided her use of a large wood stirring spoon, a metal saucepan, mixing bowl, and foiled pan, the chocolate crinkle-making began.

In the mixing bowl, Mel combined one cup of granulated sugar, 1 cup of all-purpose flour, a teaspoon of baking powder, and a half teaspoon of salt, methodically swirling the dry ingredients together. Once that was done, she added a quarter cup of vegetable oil, and—

She stopped, realizing she was missing—

“The eggs?” Abigael laid a carton of aquafaba egg substitute before Mel, cool from the adjoining refrigerator.

“Thanks,” Mel replied gratefully. “Weird,” she laughed aloud, “I _never_ forget ingredients,” as she opened the carton with a single twist of the hand, its gelatinous interior coating the powdered mixture—

“ _Neither do I,”_ Abigael whispered in Mel’s ear, as the latter suppressed a gasp. Oh _my._ Ingredients or no, this session was certainly going to test Mel’s ability to concentrate in challenging ways.

_11:03 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

The red food coloring came next, as Mel dotted the dough with three droplets of the crimson solution. Abigael frowned. “Is that…?”

“Organic? Beetroot-based, non-GMO, so yes—” answered Mel, her eyes firmly fixed on the vermillion fast spreading throughout the raw dough.

“Good, good. And the chocolate?”

 _Right._ Mel left the wood stirring spoon upright within the now-carmine-colored dough, reaching for a hot plate, the saucepan, and a sturdy heat-proof glass bowl, placing chopped baker’s chocolate within the glass, and the glass atop the saucepan—

She paused again, realizing she needed to fill the saucepan with water for the chocolate to properly temper, having zero desire to repeat the cacophony of fire engines sometime earlier ago. As if reading her mind, Abigael produced a container of filtered water, which Mel poured into the saucepan and set to boil.

_11:05 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“What now?” Abigael asked. “If you recall, this is a managerial show-stopper—”

“ _Come here_.”

Who knew Melonie could sound so… _authoritative?_ Biting her lip, Abigael approached ever nearer, her porcelain visage practically perched upon the latter’s shoulder as the chocolate tempering continued.

“Your turn—” Mel stated, handing the spoon to Abigael, who began stirring, wondering why on earth melting chocolate was so difficult for her. _All the messy experiments, the failed disasters, the burnt remains, the fire alarms—_ she inwardly cringed as she continued to rotate the curved implement around the glass bowl, seated atop the sturdy saucepan, contentedly bubbling as the minutes wore on, Mel adjusting the temperature dial every now and then to appease the sweet and sultry contents of pure _chocolat_ , as well as preheat the oven.

The brunette’s speed quickened subconsciously, under the steady gaze of her tutor. _Teacher. And she, Abigael, her malleable ing_ _énue—_ her spoon clattered against the transparent, heat-resistant curvature— _there goes all reality, hereto forth to fantasy—_

“ _Not so fast_ ,” murmured Mel, now directly behind, absentmindedly sweeping a stray strand from Abigael’s delicate English rose of a visage. “Think _meditation,_ less _marathon—”_ as the brunette sucked her breath in sharply, finding herself blushing— _of all the things!_ “Here, let _me—”_ Mel enveloped Abigael’s supple, floral-scented hand in her own, as they continued to stir the fast-melting chocolate together, in tandem, just as a sultry Arlissa tune began to play on the overhead Bluetooth speaker.

_99 good things, just one bad/But that one's driving me mad_

Their breaths collectively hitched, as they continued their rotary motions, in concert, watching the stolid slivers of pure bittersweet, dissolve into a veritably intoxicating caffeine-soaked essence.

_Every time I breathe/Every time I'm dreaming in my bed…_

Mel’s mind flickered back to the first time she met the woman whose ( _fully clothed)_ spine was planted directly in path of her own buxom chest, recalling just how abrasive she had been, that early winter morning, to a new neighbor-turned-competitor-turned— _whatever this was—_ as portions of once-rigid blocks of bitterness grew sweet—

_Thinking of the words that I once said to you/I still wake up wishing I could just move on…_

Had she really spent their first few seconds, minutes, _hours_ together, bickering about something so trivial as hourlong parking in a snow emergency commercial zone? Then complained loudly about the endless queues, winding their way in wavy curlicues, past the pleather storefront to her own café? Bickered endlessly about the supposed theft of customers or _clientele,_ in her British lexicon in that lilt she had come to know…and _love?_

_Thought I'd forget 'bout you/But everyday feels like déjà vu…_

In sync with the other’s angular gestures and abilities, their wrists skated forth, sweeping a tender-not-tawdry, leisurely, positively _languorous_ spherical path around the heated glass, the spell broken, the compacted, stubborn, cumbersome blockade dissolved to glossy, lustrous syrup, thick and treacly sweet, as Abigael slowly poured the substance into the awaiting cerise _rouge_ batter, folding the concoction lightly all the while, silently recalling a Roald Dahl story from her childhood of mathematical exponential equations and that which could be creased and _increased_ upon, over and over, so that the result touched the moon itself, _infinities upon infinities._ And _more._

_[E]very second, you won't get off my mind…_

Finding Abigael having mixed the batter to her satisfaction, Mel reluctantly broke away, this time to prepare a bowl of powdered sugar. Once done, she showed the brunette how to roll the batter into 1x1 inch spherical morsels, bathing each in the snowy confection, covered entirely in the pillowy softness from its tip to the very bottom, before lining them on the foiled pan awaiting the oven’s sordid inward heat.

_11:40 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

They washed and dried each piece of dishware, Mel packing her ingredients in her canvas satchel, the ladies each awaiting the promise of delectable baked goods, the scent of which wafted deliciously through the air. Placing the satchel upon the marble countertop, Mel turned, noticing a faint smudge of red velvet cookie dough upon Abigael’s visage, just to the left of those prim… _kissable…_ lips.

Dotting a paper towel with droplets of water, Mel advanced, casually, noiselessly, fearlessly, _fox-like_ as Abigael glanced up from her perch nearest the oven, startled but not scared. _She too,_ perhaps, had been awaiting this moment—this veritable crux—a flicker of hope glittering within her eyes. _Finally?_

The moist paper towel made contact with her pearly complexion, her eyes closing, eyelashes fluttering, _waiting_ for an explanation, _hoping_ there was none but the spark she held within her, that she knew Mel had too, if recent memory served her correctly—

_11:45 am, Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

_Riiiiiiiiiiiing!_ The pair sprang apart as if by electric shock, realizing with a jolt that the cookies were ready for removal from the oven. _Saved—or stifled—by the bell, as it were._ Abigael (and Mel) sighed ever so slightly, as they donned protective mitts.

The cookies were absolute—" _perfection,”_ breathed Abigael, as Mel bit back a smile.

No doubt about it, the brunette observed—the cookies’ exterior top had transformed, as if by magic, from coated sugar to crinkled lace-like décor, the red velvet coloring’s subtle notes present throughout. She turned to Mel. “ _You_ are perfect for a managerial position.” Mel nodded, unsure exactly as to where this conversation was headed.

“And _I_ need a business partner,” Abigael proclaimed a second later.

Mel began to get her gist. “So basically…a _merger?_ ”

Abigael assented. “A partnership. At least for the remainder of the winter season, to cope with crowd control. Of course, only if you’re interested…?” Her own conscience always told her never to mix business and pleasure, but how often did she ever listen to stone cold reason? Life was far more interesting when spiced up and _utterly_ unpredictable, that much she knew for certain.

“I’ll think it over—” began Mel, who slung her satchel over her shoulder. _Maybe? Definitely—_ but she didn’t want to appear too…what was the word? _Thirsty._

“And if you’re open to it, I can draw up a contract?”

“Maybe.” Mel smiled enigmatically. “Yeah— _maybe.”_

_Same Evening, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello, Om,_ Mel clicked _send._

 _Hola, Lilla—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _How was your day?_

 _Delicious—_ and _sent—_

Abigael grinned. _Glad to hear._

 _I found a nice pop-up shop. I think you’d like it—_ Mel typed carefully. _The owner’s amazing, and—_

She stared over her phone, across her bed to her nightstand, where a certain dark, spiky rhinestone-studded coffee thermos sat. Between stealing glances at a certain British brunette and melting exorbitant amounts of chocolate, she’d forgotten to return it to its rightful owner.

_—Absolutely, incredibly—beautiful._

Mel paused, hesitating for the briefest of moments, before daring to take the greatest of chances, cosseted in the comforting silhouettes and shadows of a cozy winter’s night.

And— _sent._


	8. Snow Zone Woes and Chocolat Chaud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigael's motorbike is towed and Mel comes to the rescue (with Choochi and Kevin's help). Abigael invites her over for hot chocolate, fireside.

Snow Zone Woes and Chocolat Chaud

_A Few Days Later, 7 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

_What now?_ Mel wondered, staring past the espresso machine across from where a certain familiar dark, spiky rhinestone-studded thermos sat. _A banshee? At this hour?_

Between trading glances with a certain British brunette who paid visits over lunch whenever she could, Mel had _still_ forgotten to return the thermos to its rightful owner. Their unofficial merger of sorts was operating on a trial basis, in which Mel would create her signature GIngerlady lattes, and crowds would go to both her and Abigael’s locations, avoiding creating winding queues that had become the bane of many a store owner’s existence in the local village as of late.

She frowned, hearing a second piercing shriek that cut through the thick glass of her storefront window.

_Was that…Abigael?_

_7:03 am, Outside Café SM to Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Panting, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her, occasionally stumbling on an errantly-placed cobblestone, approaching a small huddled figure kneeling prostrate in the middle of the no parking snow emergency zoning space that she had warned Abigael of not too long ago.

“W-What’s wrong?” Mel leaned over to catch her breath, placing her hand upon the nearest brick wall to steady herself, as the woebegone figure shook her head, her visage streaked with tears, as she let out another wail.

_7:05 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

“ABIGAEL— _talk to me—”_ Mel strode over. Kneeling, she firmly grasped Abigael’s slender shoulders as she in turn stared up at the raven-haired lady, trying in vain to ignore a certain _frisson_ of sparks emanating from Mel’s steadfast touch _. Strong. Secure. Safe—_ an embrace she could only hope to find herself enclosed within, perhaps longer than at present. She sniffled, attempting to recover herself and failing miserably.

“ _Arielle,_ ” the Brit whispered. A single word. _A name._

“Um…ok?” Mel’s brow furrowed. _Who’s Arielle, and what did she have to do with Abigael? Did she hurt her?_ Mel imagined coming after this Arielle lady—she could picture it now, _Melonie Vera, coming to the rescue, defending a hardworking pleather shop business owner from an evil source of pure malfeasance and corruption—_

“She’s missing—"

Instantly, Mel’s mental energy switched gears and went into overdrive. “Where’d you see her last? _Omigawd_ , I gotta file a missing persons report—is she your—” Mel paused, uncertain of whether she wanted to know the answer, “—sister…or roommate …or—” she gulped, “ _girlfriend?” Please, heavens to Hera,_ Mel silently pleaded, not at all caring Abigael’s upset was causing a small crowd to gather (though at a respectful distance). _Please let it not be girlfriend…_

She made to stand upright but Abigael yanked her back down a second later, the pair tumbling, landing bottoms-first on the fresh snow mound atop the recently vacated parking lot space. For a petite damsel in distress, she _certainly_ had quite a tenuous grip, Mel mused.

“Don’t be _daft—”_ hissed the brunette. “Arielle’s my _motorbike_ —”

_7:08 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel blinked, momentarily stupefied. “Your— _motorbike?_ Has—a _name?_ ”

Abigael rolled her eyes. _Duh._ “ _Yes,_ her name’s Arielle and she’s _really_ quite lovely—or _was—_ until some miscreant stole—” Mel placed her index finger upon Abigael’s lips, silencing her, realizing what had likely happened as she pointed to the myriad parking signs posted above them.

_No parking except before 5 am on Wednesdays. Two hour parking between 10 am-Noon. Biweekly snow emergency parking. One-hour customer parking._

“You’re parked in a snow zone on a Wednesday after 5 am… _and_ it snowed—” Mel stated aloud as Abigael wiped what remained of her tears.

“ _Shite—”_

“Hey— _hey—”_ Mel reached a hand toward the porcelain visage, etched with fear and worry for her precious vehicle of transportation, almost as if it had sentient memories attached to its existence. “It’s ok—”

“It’s _not_ ok!” exclaimed Abigael hotly, as she sprung to her feet, Mel following suit, the pair shaking off the icy dampness. “She’s all _alone_ , probably en route to _impounding—”_ her voice began rising—muttering something vaguely incomprehensible, the words “ _barbaric country”_ and “ _too many rules”_ surfacing every now and then—

_7:10 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Shop, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel stroked Abigael’s chin as the latter fell silent. “I know a guy. _Choochi._ Works for the local PD, deals in this stuff. _Do you trust me?”_ She regarded the brunette closely, realizing they were only millimeters apart—

Abigael paused. _Do I? Trust…Melonie?_ After a beat, she nodded.

“Ok then—” as Mel turned to leave. Abruptly. Almost _too_ abruptly _._

“Where’re you going?” Abigael’s voice rang out.

“I have a phone call to make,” replied Mel, an enigmatic expression lining her visage.

_8:10 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Being put on hold was annoying, but being put on hold while attempting to reassure a terrified co-manager was _aggravating_. _C’mon, Choochi!_ She shrieked in frustration, head-against-wall, her fists balled. _Hurry the eff up! Your holiday shenanigans can wait!_

Granted, Abigael hadn’t done any of the typical hovering she’d expected, opting to languish at a distance—but languish she did, over the course of an hour. Their text conversation was at a steady dotted ellipse “(…)” as Mel imagined Abigael hunched over her device in her back storage room—wandering over to the marble countertop—then traversing the length of the store to rearrange a pair of pleather notebooks—typing, anxiously awaiting word on her precious metallic property.

 _Is she alright?_ Mel knew Abigael wanted to ask, but chose not to, afraid to hear the answer.

_8:30 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

“Ayyyyyyyy chica! Como estas?” A few party horns and bursts of what sounded like confetti could be heard.

 _Oh thank Gawd._ “CHOOCHI!” Mel yelled into her phone, then realized she was shouting, as several onlookers stared. Blushing, she sank down to the floor, back flush against the wall, as she continued the hurried conversation. “Ok, _look,_ a friend’s real distraught, her motorbike’s been towed—”

“Motorbike? Oh, the one we crushed twenty minutes ago?” as Mel’s insides turned to ice.

“Y-y-you did _what??”_

“Hahaha kidding—”

“Dude, that’s totally _no bueno—" There’s still time,_ she realized, to her relief, coupled with irritation at Choochi’s antics. _Typical cisgender male._ “Can you return it or not? It belongs to Abigael—”

“ _Oh,_ so the friend has a _name—”_ Mel could practically _hear_ Choochi’s smug grin on the opposite end of the phone. “ _Do_ tell. _Ella linda?_ ” _She cute?_

“None of your _damned_ business _—”_ She made as though to hang up, frustrated to no end. _Is that all men cared about? Not the personality of a potential amour, but looks alone?_

Perhaps Choochi himself realized he was out of line. “Ok, _awright, awright, awright_ ” in his best Matthew McConaughey imitation _. “_ I’ll call up Kevin on the other line and see what he’s got.”

“Thanks Choochi.”

“I got your back, kid.” With that, both hung up, Mel finally able to exhale, just a bit.

_9 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel continued to pace the length of her café, now shared in tandem with her partner-in-crime, Abigael, who appeared soon after the phone conversation ended, as if she’d eavesdropped the entire time. _Not that she blamed her._ If it had been her own motorbike, Mel herself would have done the same.

She continued to shift and reshift the napkins and utensils, ceramic mugs and festive silvery holiday décor, as she chopped a new batch of marshmallows, heated to 250 degrees Fahrenheit, mixed, then poured out to rest the evening before. Placing the resulting cubes into a large mason jar, confectionary sugar and cornstarch at the ready, she heard a knock at the door.

Glancing upward, she noticed a medium-height man, with cropped dark hair and a streak of blond, eyes a watery blue, holding—

_Abigael’s motorbike!_

Giving a short shriek ( _or squeal)_ of joy, Mel raced to the door, before realizing her apron was completely covered in cornstarch and powdered sugar, as were her hands. Doubling back, she washed her hands, removing her apron soon after, before practically skipping toward the exit.

_9:02 am, Outside Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

“Are you…” the man checked the note on file. “Abigael Jameson-Caine?” He studied the raven-haired woman’s overall appearance. _She didn’t look particularly British. Maybe she was married to a Brit?_

Mel laughed aloud, shaking her head. “No, but—” pointing to Abigael in the distance, her back facing the glass window of her pleather storefront, “ _she_ is. Would you like some help with that?” indicating the motorbike, as they walked out toward the cobblestone sidewalk in the direction of the pop-up. “It looks sorta heavy.”

The guy shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. I’m Kevin, by the way.”

“Mel. Well, Melonie, Mel for short,” as she extended a hand. “Good to meet you. My friend’s gonna be _thrilled—_ ” realizing that “friend” seemed to give short shrift to the heady ardor she had for the woman.

“Doing my part to bring joy to the holiday season,” Kevin replied with a grin. “Happy to help.”

_9:09 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Spruce Hill Village_

Mel knocked on Abigael’s storefront glass, then pointed to the motorbike. _Guess what?_ she mouthed, as Abigael leapt and clapped her hands with an air of excitement Mel hadn’t seen in ages. _Found!_

Kevin placed the motorbike on the cobblestone as Abigael raced of the shop, a joyful reunion, before turning to enfold Mel in her own willowy hold.

“Um…taking off, on the clock y’know,” Kevin spoke as Mel nodded, herself still fully ensconced in the warmth of Abigael’s hug. _Thank Choochi for me,_ she mouthed as he made a discreet exit, opting to give the women— _girlfriends—_ he assumed—or _future marrieds, perhaps?—_ a bit of well-deserved alone time before the mid-morning coffee crowd.

_9:15 am, Outside Pleather Pop-Up Spruce Hill Village_

“Abigael— _I—kinda—need—to—get—to—work—”_ as the brunette finally released her hold, not before stroking a lock of Mel’s raven hair.

“This is the _kindest_ thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Abigael murmured in wonderment.

“Just helping a colleague in need—” Mel managed before she was interrupted.

“How about hot chocolate at the marble countertop? Noon? _My_ treat,” she added.

Mel smiled. “Sounds like a date.” Realizing what she’d said, her eyes widened—“I-I mean—spending time—cocoa’s great—um—I mean—” she stammered aloud as she felt her cheeks begin to flush.

“I know _perfectly_ well what you mean,” Abigael bit her lip and turned away to park her motorbike, this time somewhere safe and out of reach of the somewhat predatory towers.

_Same Evening, 10 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hola Lilla,_ Abigael clicked _send._

 _Hello, Om—_ came the swift reply, a minute later. _How was your day?_

 _Simply *divine*—_ and _sent—_

Mel grinned. That was as good as she could possibly hope for today, thinking back to their noontime _chocolat chaud_ intermission as they sat together, curled up on a canvas-stretched couch fireside, its crackles and snaps contributing to Christmas ambiance. To their left, feet ahead, was a blue spruce tree festooned in electric candlelight all aglow, with damask paper maché ornaments besides. _A remnant of her English childhood,_ Abigael noted with a wry expression, as she stirred her nearly overflowing foamed hot chocolate with a thick, oversized candy cane, its mint scent intermingling with—

_Abigael._

_Her magnolia rose-petaled scent._ Mel closed her eyes, imagining once more, the evergreen wreath situated high above the greenery-adorned mantel, its pine-fresh scent wafting about the cozy shop as their hands drew closer together, just the tiniest of infinitesimal bits.

_Glad to hear._

And— _sent._


	9. Light the Night Fantastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel and Abigael visit the town's outdoor Christmas market stalls. Mel can't tell whether their lunches and the market visit are dates or not. On a whim, Mel takes Abigael to see a special Christmas decoration, unique to the village. Upon arriving home, she doesn't know what to do with her online correspondence.

Light the Night Fantastic

_A Few Days Later, 7 pm, Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel stared, transfixed, at the Turkish star-shaped paper lanterns adorning the holiday shop stall, one of many in the town square as of late, to help usher in the holiday season. The center contained five or six-petaled damask pink etchings, followed by ones in paler aqua, glowing against the evening chill. Several inches away were a dark amber-hued paper star, a crimson origami-styled design, and a couple of cheerful daffodil-hued celestial lanterns as well.

Glancing ahead at the next stall, she noticed a healthy adornment of holly coupled with lime green and cherry-colored baubled décor. Madame Mayor certainly knew how to bring the community together, _and_ support local businesses, she thought, as she breathed in the delicious scent of roasting chestnuts and—was that—?

“Hot cocoa?” proffered a familiar British voice. It was Abigael, holding two identical cups of the frothy concoction.

“ _Thanks_ ,” murmured Mel appreciatively as they continued walking, taking cautious sips all the while. These days, it seemed Abigael appeared nearly everywhere, almost akin to an eternal shadow, but one of the best possible sort. It was difficult to put her finger on it, but the brunette seemed very attentive to her needs—whether she was hungry, cold, or stressed out, Abigael knew the remedy for just about everything.

And for that, Mel considered herself lucky. _Lucky to have such a colleague._

_Because that’s what they were, right?_

The pair rounded the corner, passing the ornaments pop-up, coming across a bevy of Christmas trees and a chorus of carolers. _Coworkers…just coworkers._

Yet, she wondered whether it was her imagination, or if she and the woman beside her could be more—more than colleagues, more than coworkers, more than business partners. It was the blooming camaraderie over the past week or so that warmed her soul in indescribable ways, which also had the town talking.

“EXTRA! EXTRA!” The local tabloids read the other day. “Coffee-Pleather Merger, a Match Made in Heaven?”

“ _Oh dear sweet Jesus,”_ Mel recalled muttering, upon glancing at the impossible-to-ignore headline from where she stood in her— _their—_ café, her face turning beet red as she continued to prepare her Gingerlady lattes and, at Abigael’s behest, a couple of boozy snowmen shakes, their stick-like arms made of frozen dark chocolate ganache. “I-I’m sorr—” she began, but Abigael placed a finger on the former’s lips.

“ _Are_ you?” the Brit inquired with a delicious twist of her lovely lips. “Because _I’m_ most certainly _not_.”

_7:30 pm, Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village_

Mel thought over their lunches, her colleague’s hand draped across her own shoulder at turns, laughing over the latest baking fad or fail, her teeth glimmering bright as luminous pearls, its owner whom Mel wished to know and study ever the more. _Were those lunches…dates?_

She thought back to a couple of days before, when she had found herself in what Abigael called “her lair”—her small apartment directly behind the pleather pop-up storefront. There were countless Rembrandt-style oil paintings decorating every inch of free moss-hued wall space, the main source of light being—was it _ten_ or _eleven_ —candles? Mel half-expected the figures painted within each artwork to move, and was almost disappointed when they didn’t.

Over a chaser of brandy, the pair had begun sharing their art designs for various drinks and snacks to tantalize and tease the taste buds of current and prospective customers. _A miniature gingerbread house, Jack Skellington style? Double fudge red velvet crinkle cookies? Snickerdoodles with Madagascar vanilla and Vietnamese cinnamon spice?_

Nothing was off the table. _Peanut butter chocolate kiss cookies. Gummy Santa hug hat cookies._ Neither was, apparently, _whatever_ that was, Mel posited silently, noting how Abigael’s slender porcelain hand skated past her own wrist, a ghost of a whisper, perhaps, a foreshadowing of something… _more_ , if she herself was brave enough to venture forth—and embrace it.

_Was she brave enough?_

Mel pondered the question, surrounded by the scented pine, mounds of snow, and festive “ _Here we go, a wassailing_ ,” whispering in Abigael’s ear of a detour for hidden scenic lights.

_7:44 pm, Alley off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village_

“Where _are_ we?” asked Abigael warily, as Mel beckoned her to follow through a somewhat foreboding hidden alleyway. “You’re not going to seduce me _solely_ for my recipes, are you?” she inquired with a somewhat bemused expression, though obscured by the surrounding darkness.

Mel turned to her, intrigued as to the direction of this conversation, but not daring herself to hope. _Not a single iota_. “ _Abi,_ who do you take me for?” _Seduce? Is that where we are? Are we—a thing—?_

“I kid,” responded the brunette, though not as much as she herself supposed, if entirely honest with herself. The female pair traversed the dank corridor, sidestepping bits of faded wet confetti and what appeared to be sodden remains of Christmas poppers.

_7:45 pm, Harbor off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village_

“Are you sure we’re not lost?” she asked, for what was likely the umpteenth time.

Mel stopped a moment later. “Abigael, close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open—”

“Mmmhmmmm….” the Sussex lady, somewhat skeptical, nevertheless did as Mel requested. _Please don’t leave me in an alley—I regret my much-earlier actions—is this how they do things in this country?_ A jumble of fractured thoughts and theories surrounded the Brit, who was altogether unsure of Mel’s motives.

“ _Look—”_ breathed Mel a second later, as Abigael’s eyes sprang open, revealing a dazzling, _bedazzled_ array of glittering lights, adorning countless sailboats, canoes, catamarans alike, in a positively _nautical_ holiday-festooned setting.

_8 pm, Harbor off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village_

They sat companionably at the pier, legs swinging, overlooking the body of water glittering nearest them, sweeping in an ombre design, darkening further ahead to a rich plum-indigo, reflecting the twinkling stars dancing across the night sky. The water, Mel knew, extended for miles in every which direction, and had a certain meditative quality about it.

“Oh, _Mel,”_ sighed Abigael, positively in ecstasy. “It’s simply _lovely.”_

The pair sat for several minutes more, listening to the rush and curl of the waves below, before Mel began to speak once more, of something she sensed she needed to get off her chest. “Why did you steal it?”

Abigael frowned. “Steal…?”

“The organic vegan gingerbread. Ok, more _monopolize_ than _steal,_ but—”

“ _I didn’t steal it_ ,” Abigael replied softly, her fingertips nearly grazing Mel’s own.

“Really?” Mel raised an eyebrow, somewhat unbelieving. _Then…why?_

“I took the gingerbread because it gave…well…” the brunette paused, hesitating. “It gave me an excuse to bother you—”

“Bother— _me?_ ” Mel wasn’t sure whether to laugh, or—do any manner of things—one of which could involve clasping her hand in _her_ own—but what if that was a bad idea? _Mixing business with pleasure?_

Abigael nodded, her eyelashes fluttering ever-so-entrancingly, as the distant choir broke into contemporary song—“All I Want For Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey. “I thought if I did, and you were annoyed enough…we’d see each other more…”

And in that moment, time slowed down, the sparkling tea lights providing a certain coziness and warmth enfolding the women as they ruminated and spoke aloud their tenderest, deepest confessions. And in doing so, Mel thought to herself that Abigael Jameson-Caine had never looked more kissable in her life.

Leaving caution to the wind, they each tucked a lock of hair behind the other’s ear and giggled, knowing where their lips would travel, how their paths would remain intertwined for the near and distant future, realizing their destinies were forever fused in fruitful entrepreneurial abundance.

_Later That Evening, 11 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

She ignored the knowing looks exchanged between her sisters and Harry as she snuck in well past 10 pm. _Who’s the juvenile delinquent now?_ Maggie wanted to say, though Macy was seen jabbing the youngest in the ribs. _Don’t ruin the moment,_ Macy seemed to say, as Harry nodded in agreement. It had been ages since they had seen her just _this_ happy. _Exuberant,_ even.

 _Reader, I kissed her._ Mel wrote the following four-worded entry into her Tumblr, attaching the perfect glimmering nautical tealight Instagram photo, this time curated from the oh-so-exotic location of Provence, France. And— _done._ She recalled her marble visage, wavy dark hair, that tiny freckle nearest her right cheekbone, and the velvety, mint-scented smoothness of her—

 _Hola Lilla!_ Mel turned to her phone, thoughts of Abigael momentarily interrupted.

 _Oh._ In the course of the evening’s events, Mel had almost entirely forgotten about her online correspondence. _Oh right._ _Om and Lilla._

 _What was to become of Om and Lilla?_ she wondered to herself, hoping that Om was the woman she had grown delightfully acquainted to in the past month, weeks, and days since their less-than-stellar first meetup. _Or accosting_. _But what if she was wrong?_

 _Hello Om,_ Mel finally typed. _It’s been one very long and crazy day…_


	10. Of Beginnings and Balthazar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel finally decides to meet Om, guarding herself for disappointment, still wishing and hoping Om and Abigael are one and the same...

Of Beginnings and Balthazar

_Same Evening, 11 pm, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village_

_Hello Om,_ Mel finally typed. _It’s been one very long and crazy day…_

 _Tell me about it,_ the response came just as swiftly, followed by a smiley-face emoticon surrounded by a plethora of pink hearts.

Mel’s fingers paused above the typepad. Om typically did not inscribe hearts like that— _at all. Could she be--Abigael_? _One and the very same?_ She bit her lip, mulling this over as she took a sip of fresh-brewed peppermint tea, courtesy of Harry.

 _What if Om was_ not _Abigael?_ Mel had kissed the latter— _Abigael—_ and had her companionship, her loyalty, and by all appearances sans evidence to the contrary—her _heart._ That should have been enough for her, no? _But…_

_What if…what if?_

Her nagging conscience continued to prod, weaving discomfiting questions within her once-soporific psyche, even at this late an hour.

_You and Om had a meeting of the minds. Don’t try to deny it—_

_I wasn’t going to,_ she said to herself. _I know what I felt—_

Mel recalled their midnight chats, spent regaling the other of eventful happenings of the day, their triumphs and setbacks, their successes and such _—_ Om’s bedroom to her own, two glimmering beams streaking through an elegant symphony of intricate, interlaced, intermodal cyberspace akin to Kelly and Yorkie— _Black Mirror’s_ couple of the idyllic software-sewn San Junipero paradise. Om and Lilla had been, in her mind, modern-day comets flying across hammered hardware, their purest embodiments actively seeking solace in the other’s pristine prose amid the blissfully secluded solitude of twilight.

_I’ll live with it—_

_Abigael and I are a couple, a blossoming, burgeoning pair._ Mel tried to convince herself that _that_ alone was sufficient—

 _Are you sure?_ Her conscience was really trying her patience.

Mel sighed, and finally typed her response. _Can we meet one time, in person?_ she spelled out, fully expecting an excuse or a half-hearted catfishing reply, but—

_Tomorrow, café, noon?_

_Just three words._ Mel squinted at the answer, wondering if there wasn’t some way to transport herself vis-à-vis osmosis to Om’s bedroom, her living quarters—to breathe in her scent— _could_ it be the same Sussex brunette? And to _talk_ to her, to see just _who_ and _what_ she was, this mysterious woman who had slid into her DMs, epistolary-style.

_Did Om’s urban habitat include myriad candelabras, their innermost forms shedding pearls of molten wax upon the brass? Did her laughter sound of Sussex in tempered tonality? When she smiled, did her lips smell of mint, her visage of rose petals, freshly-picked from its verdant stem of vitality?_

_Ok,_ Mel said back.

 _For peace of mind. It’s all I ask of you, Om,_ she thought, as she drifted off to sleep, visions of nautical tea lights glimmering all around.

_Next Day, Noon, Outside Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

She checked her messages as she stood in front of her café, heart continually skipping a beat as various women passed by—there was that beach-blond sporting a fringe of pink hair, a rather tall woman of tawny hue, and… _so many others_. But none of them came up to her, introducing themselves as the ever-illusive Om. _Not a single one._

Abigael had taken a day off at the last minute, and who knew where _she_ was. Thankfully, the dining crowd had thinned out somewhat (they offered coffee and cookies and boozy shakes, not actual meals), so Mel could take a breather and enjoy some well-deserved time to herself.

She heard her phone buzz. _Running five minutes late. Still on?_

Slowly exhaling, Mel responded, _Yup!_ before walking back into the café.

_12:02 pm, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

_Three more minutes._ If everything went according to plan, she and this _Om_ would finally meet face-to-face. She imagined the woman a brunette, with a wry sense of humor and a witty intellect to boot, not to mention— _British_ —based on countless earlier messages and idiomatic expressions within. _But imagining alone, did not make something so._

Her eyes fell upon the tall spiky rhinestone-studded thermos tucked behind the espresso machine for safekeeping, that she _still_ hadn’t returned to Abigael, despite their near-constant interactions throughout their mutual shared spaces. She ran her fingers over the pleather exterior, plucking the object from relatively shadowed obscurity, thinking of everything that had transpired to lead her to this very situation, _right_ here, _right_ now.

 _I’ve finally opened my heart to love again,_ she realized, experiencing an epiphany of sorts. Rather than a sense of fear and loss over past paramours, she felt the dawning awakening of… _hope._ Her mind traveled to the winding queues when they had first laid eyes upon the other, followed by Maggie’s attempts at playing Cupid over a boozy Santa shake. Far from her earlier annoyance, Mel realized Abigael really _was_ a cunning marketing genius, assessing millennial consumer-driven trends as they continually ebbed and flowed.

And then came the red velvet chocolate crinkle cookies, from a page of Marisol’s recipes. _Did her mother realize, decades ago, that it doubled as a love potion?_ Mel wondered as she recalled the intoxicatingly bittersweet, viscous _chocolat_ and the crimson coloring too, coupled with the messiness that led to delicate dabbing of porcelain skin ( _and gave way to certain other imagined pursuits)_. 

_12:03 pm, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

_Not to mention, the candles._

Their luminous glow painted the surrounding artwork of Abigael’s lair _chiaroscuro_ , rendering themselves in a veritable hygge snowglobe of interior designation, its antique sofa appearing tiny, yet sumptuous when sat upon, to her pleasant surprise.

_Never judge a book by its cover._

Mel knew that now, seeing Abigael’s fond, devoted attachment to her precious machinery, her motorbike Arielle, who had no doubt been a formative fixture of her youthful cross-country (and _cross-continent_ ) adventures. Deep down, despite (or because of) the gingerbread heist, she understood Abigael to be a kind soul with a quick-tongued, sly, sharp sense of humor, the type of sparkling personality Mel had come to admire and altogether appreciate, a piece of her life’s puzzle she never knew she needed, until now. _And all that._

Earlier that morning, Mel was at a loss as to what exactly she ought to wear for meeting Om. _Whoever Om was._ She eyed her wardrobe, realizing the majority were in various shirted styles of black…onyx…ebony…et cetera. After a half hour of unproductive debating and decisions…and _revisions_ to those decisions, she finally decided upon a short black skirt, a forest green ribbed turtleneck that hinted at elegant Christmas cheer, and matching black tights in the event a clumsy customer spilled his or her espresso atop her outerwear ( _not as uncommon an occurrence as one would believe_ ).

_12:04 pm, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

_Sixty more seconds._ Mel checked her phone, realizing with some panic that she had only—

_One minute to decide if she wanted to meet Om. Assuming Om showed up._

_One minute to run._

She glanced at the front door, its normally transparent glass partially obscured with wreathed evergreen holiday décor and the barest beginnings of sugared wintry frost hearkening from the northernmost hemisphere, Vancouver thereabouts.

_Only twenty or thirty feet to the back exit._

If she left right now, she knew she could be kept in the dark. She wouldn’t have to risk hope that the unknown woman might be Abigael—there was _no_ way on earth the gods would orchestrate such a scenario in her favor. She, Melonie Vera, would only withstand disappointment and a direction toward pointed, near-permanent cynicism if she so much as waited a minute more. _Right?_

_But…what if?_

_What if you stayed?_

Hands shaking, she blinked away tears, staring at the ceiling.

_Oh, who was she kidding? She was Melonie-fucking-Vera. Of course she’d stay put._

_But it wouldn’t make the disappointment any easier…_

_Ping!_ Mel regarded her device, brow furrowed.

_I’m the one with the cat._

_The one with the…what?_ Unsure of what Om meant, Mel pondered several scenarios, each more ludicrous than the next.

_12:04 and 30 seconds pm, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Maybe Om has a cat. That _definitely_ couldn’t be Abigael then. Mel’s face fell a bit, as she had been holding out hope, though she maintained face for the sake of customers and pedestrians alike.

_Hope, perhaps, for a fairy tale?_

She had no idea, firmly believing there was no such thing as a Disney “happily-ever-after” in whatever way she imagined many women growing up had been trained to believe.

Realizing she only had thirty seconds more, she mentally braced herself, blinking hard, before grabbing the spiked thermos, bravely traipsing through the front door of Café SM, shutting the door behind, as snow flurries began falling from the neutral, nimbostratus sky.

_12:05 pm, Outside Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

Hearing a tiny _meow,_ she looked up from her phone, to see—

She gasped.

It was Abigael _, her_ Abigael _,_ holding a sumptuous pleather carrier case containing an _extremely_ wrinkly Sphynx cat, who was dressed to the nines in a cheerful cranberry holiday sweater.

“ _Hullo, Lilla,”_ the brunette murmured, stepping closer until they were no more than a foot apart, gently placing the carrier upon the sidewalk.

“ _Hi…Om…_ I mean… _Ab…Abigael,”_ Mel found herself suddenly bashful as the Brit reached forward, tucking a raven lock beneath the former’s ear.

“I-I think this is yours?” Mel found herself handing Abigael the spiked rhinestone thermos she’d held on to for the past days and weeks, but the woman stopped her.

“You’re _crying—”_

Mel sniffed and laughed. “I-I was just worried—I didn’t know if Om and you—” she stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

“Were the same person?” the Sussex woman inquired with a telltale arch of her impeccably-crested eyebrow.

The raven-haired woman nodded, a faint rouge tinged upon her cheeks. “ _I was hoping it was you,”_ she whispered, her visage inches from Abigael’s own, drifting _closer_ still, upon which the latter penetrated the infinitesimal distance between them, their lips meeting in an unbridled cataclysmic fervor, kismet at long last.

_12:08 pm, Outside Café SM, Spruce Hill Village_

“Um… _Abi_?” Mel broke contact from a kiss that could only be described as the melding of minds, the sultry _singing_ of twin souls…

“Yes, love?”

Mel stared down at the pleather carrier to the hairless creature housed within. “Is that Madame Mayor’s _cat_?”

“Who’s asking?” Abigael’s mischievous eyes twinkled in the glow of festive holiday lights. _Ever the charmer._ “I _kid_ ,” she continued, as Mel gave somewhat of a side-eye, as she was oft wont to do in that curiously entrancing sense of skepticism she had about her. “The madame and her wife left town on short notice for a business trip, and I happened to be the only Spruce Hill resident well-versed in exotic cat breeds…”

“Huh _.” Sounded plausible enough,_ Mel thought to herself. “What’s its name?”

Abigael lifted the carrier with one hand, the other newly intertwined with Mel’s own, as they walked into Café SM together. “His name is Balthazar, and he’s simply _wicked—…_ ”

-THE END-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next up: working on a Secret Santa fic and my next Charmed Hacy novella, "Of Phantasm and Fury."
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Twitter (and IG, if you want to hear my music)!


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